The Creation of the Frankentrump

Lighting strikes. Thunder claps. Rain lashes against the windows. Wind rattles everything that isn’t nailed down. AMERICA is in a basement labratory hunched over a operating table. IGOR, his assistant watches on rubbing his manicured hands together.
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Lighting strikes. Thunder claps. Rain lashes against the windows. Wind rattles everything that isn’t nailed down. AMERICA is in a basement labratory hunched over a operating table. IGOR, his assistant watches on rubbing his manicured hands together.
frankentrump.jpg

Lighting strikes. Thunder claps. Rain lashes against the windows. Wind rattles everything that isn’t nailed down. AMERICA is in a basement laboratory hunched over a operating table. IGOR, his assistant watches on rubbing his manicured hands together.

AMERICA: Yes….yes… YES!!!!

IGOR: (In a perfect English accent) YES, master. Can I be of assistance?

AMERICA throws it’s hands in the air and in the flash of the lighting strikes we see blood on the sleeves of the gown it wears.

AMERICA: All these years. All this time. All the working class blood. Reagan. Clinton. Illegal wars. Armchair racism. Focusing on the wrong amendments. Brunch worship. Lobbyists that smell of boat polish and hookers tears. Getting away with JFK. Reality Television replacing books. Wrapping everything in bacon. All the idly doing nothing when we could have been doing something.

AMERICA rushes to the window and opens it and pushes a metal rod out into the storm.

AMERICA: Now the time has come for my creation to LIVE! My… beautiful… Monster.

A strike of lighting hits the rod and electricity arcs through the laboratory and strikes the MONSTER in two bolts that protrude out of his neck.

AMERICA: ALIVE!!!! He is Alive!!!

IGOR: He is glorious, Master. 

MONSTER: Wall.

AMERICA: Igor pass that orange paint, blow up that plastic doll, and and go and mangle one of the cats with a motor-bike chain. My creation needs hair.

END